As I type this it has been three days since Pepe and his crew abandoned the old engine in the saloon companionway. I have been battling the anti fowling all weekend. Paint stripper, sanding the works. To illustrates the sad state of affairs, I am forced to piss in empty bottle of coke rather than make the precipitous climb back to ground level and find the security guard to give me the key to the toilets in the middle of the night.
I feel like some strange patient in an isolation ward. The boatyard is quiet at night. Just me, the security guard and two yappy puppy dogs that do a good attempt at trying to scare you if you should wonder from your little confined space. To get into the boat is a climb up a rickety ladder and trestle. And once up, mind you don't disappear down the engine hatch in the cockpit or trip over the engine which is partially out of its cradle and lying cock eyed on the cabin flore.
To add to the horror(as if the bottle of coke was not enough), my pet cockroaches seem to be making a spirited comeback. I am covered in toxic paint dust. My nails in need of a manicure and the soles of my work shoes(an old pair of puma sneakers) are covered in about 10mm of paint goo. This from the paint stripping I've been doing all week end! Aggggh. When in doubt retreat to God or, if like me you find yourself working on a Sunday, retreat to Art. This time in the form of an abstract photograph. The square to the right is the hull just before paint stripping and the square to the left is the pattern something makes when it falls to the ground from the boats precipitous 4m high deck. Gob smacked I am sure. Andres Serrano eat your heart out.